


Of Broken Hearts and Empty Glasses

by Megalohdon



Series: Promise Me the Moon, Darling [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Break Up, Making Up, Multi, Post-Break Up, References to Depression, Soulmates, Weddings, runaway groom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-13 03:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11176500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megalohdon/pseuds/Megalohdon
Summary: A cup of tea poised itself between them, steam billowing in small plumes center of the table where their hands refused to meet;"Why?"A loaded gun, cocked and aimed for his own heart, and he shivers with the way Viktor's smile manages to stifle the atmosphere."I didn't want to hurt you, Yuuri. Never.""But you did," he countered, quiet and angry in the back of the café, "you broke my heart. You left."





	1. Chapter 1

He should have been prepared.

                In a way, he was. He had sculpted himself into the picture of control, a caged off creature of mystery and shrouded doubts, a monster full of scrutiny and hate. Society molded him into a man of wavering apprehension, the solid shell of someone who had it together with a rattled core that shook at the very _idea_ of opening up. Because who would want inside the crowded halls of his chest? Make their home in the caverns of his faulty self-esteem and shabby ego, expect warmth from a man who couldn’t find the flames of passion in his life?

                Who would want _him_?

                “Viktor would,” he had told himself the night before, a whispered promise to no one against the cotton of his sheets. Of course _Viktor_ would want him that way. Viktor Nikiforov, the unassuming tidal wave of adoration that tore apart his rocky shores, pressed against his sandy beaches and opened him up. He broke past a wall Yuuri didn’t know he had up, wasn’t aware he had even made until Viktor dug his fingers into the flesh of his chest one night, pressed past the bones of his ribcage and made way straight for his heart.

                Oh it was terrifying, letting him in, but it was so _right._ It was so natural to love Viktor; as easy as it was to wake up and simply be, as essential as the air in his lungs had become. Viktor was a staple in his daily life, had been for just over three years now and had carved a place into Yuuri’s heart because he had demanded it from the day they met at that bar on a Friday night in June. There was a permeating presence of Viktor in his- _their_ apartment, he had reminded himself, be it the pile of laundry on the right side of the bed, shoved beside the bedside table because Yuuri was known to scold, or the way the green toothbrush from the drugstore at the corner of their block never made its way back into the holder.

                It was an ever pervading warmth that wrapped itself around him, collecting up his insecurities and leaving them at the door when he came home. Their apartment was a safe place, a sanctuary his fears couldn’t invade and haunt him, and it was where Viktor’s hands slipped around his waist and dipped beneath the waistband of his sweats, fingertips brushing against hipbones with a teasing scrape simply because he _could._

                Because Yuuri had let him in, had let him make himself at home in his life and his bed, let him take control of the doubts that had driven him this far in life.

                He had let Viktor cradle him close when they made love, bodies entangled in their hand woven web of indescribable intimacy, breaths mingling between gentle laughs and hushed whispers. Yuuri remembered their first time, the unsure tremors of his hands that were steadied by Viktor’s quiet resolve alone, and he still felt that press inside, the warmth that filled him in a way he hadn’t had before, Viktor holding himself so close with chapped lips dancing along his collarbone. He remembered how Viktor had told him just before, fingers entwined tightly above his head and noses just _barely_ touching in the blanketing darkness around them, “It’ll be okay. Just trust me.”

                And he had.

                He had trusted Viktor with his _everything,_ had trusted him so wholly and completely that he let him inside him in more ways than he knew was possible, kept opening doors for their future and let Viktor guide the way. Yuuri was merely a passenger on the ride of life, and Viktor was his captain, an expert who had asked for the younger man to just simply _believe in him._

                But that’s how he found himself here, sitting on the carpeted steps to an altar he had abandoned himself, a congregation of skeptics quickly filing out of the church Yuuri had been so against since the beginning.

                _“Wouldn’t it be so nice to get married outside, maybe by the sea?”_

_“I want this to be just us and the people closest to us, I think a Church is a great place to do that.”_

Maybe a Church just made it easier to run, made it easier to leave an expectant groom at the altar while he hitched a redeye flight back to Russia with the only goodbye coming by way of a scrawled letter on the back of a napkin with a scotch infused ring on it, hand delivered to the man he was to _marry_ by his best friend.

                “Yuuri, I’m sorry, really I had no i-”

                Inhale.

                “Just. Stop, Chris. Please.”

                The other relented, if only for a moment, before stepping forward and taking a seat by the would-be groom’s side with a heavy heart and hooded gaze, “I never would have expected him to do this, I hope you know that. You deserve so much better than anyone who would ever think to leave you like this, especially on your wedding day.”

                Yuuri barks out a choppy laugh, the heel of his palm pressing into his right eye as he pushes away the tears that threaten to spill because he should have _seen_ this coming, he doesn’t get the right to cry. Viktor was too good for him, a fanciful enigma that he couldn’t tie down, and the fact that he had even agreed to Yuuri’s proposal was surprising on its own.

                He should have been prepared.

                “I don’t… I don’t really want to hear it, right now. I don’t think I do, clearly, or he wouldn’t have done it at all but it’s… It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

                “Yuuri…”

                “I just… I want to go home, please.”

                But home was worse than a quieted church, empty halls that echoed with a presence of what was and taunted Yuuri with reminders of what _should have been_. But there he was, tux askew and a bottle of chardonnay in his hand because he wasn’t frivolous enough to let it go to waste, standing in the doorway of his apartment praying to a God he never believed in that Viktor would just come _home_.

                He never did.

                Yuuri’s temple of quivering memories set him in motion for reflection, brought that bottle to his lips and threw him back against the door because he just didn’t have it in him anymore to go back to his bedroom. Not back to where they slept at night, curled up tight in the soft embrace of each other, underneath cotton sheets and gentle promises of forever after the lights were turned out. He could still feel Viktor’s presence everywhere, a lingering caress that mocked him, forcing him to bury his head into his knees that he pulled to his chest while he let his fingers curl into the fabric of his pants. It was hard to look up when the walls were lined with framed moments of their history, an anthology of love he didn’t expect to end this way.

                But then again, he should have seen it coming.

                Viktor was a red flag poised under the ruse of a good time, a dancing escape from reality that pulled Yuuri away from the darker recesses of his mind. This was always temporary to the Russian man, it was obvious now that he was gone; the way he refused to put his touch on the place, and offered to move in with Yuuri in his place rather than getting a new one together, and he had fought so hard to convince Yuuri that he simply had too _many_ clothes to keep them all with him, and that’s why he never filled the drawers in the dresser or put those blazers Yuuri hated on hangers in the closet.

                Sure, Viktor moved in; he lived there under the same leaky roof as Yuuri and slept in the bed whose springs were well worn and broken down, but he never _lived_ there.

                His heart belonged elsewhere.

                It was obvious now, twenty minutes into his spiraling wave of self-loathing and drinking, the way Viktor managed to distance himself from commitment without letting Yuuri in on it. His heart stayed in St. Petersburg, his mind running wild with a constant barrage of ‘what ifs’. Yuuri had told Viktor he loved him, a haze of sex layering itself over his thoughts and judgement, fingers curling into the short hairs at the nape of the older man’s neck and the response in turn was a quivering ‘I know’ and a kiss to his temple.

                But it was Viktor, and it was okay.

                It was Viktor, so the quirks he had were _expected,_ they were naturally assumed.

                Viktor loved him, he could feel it in the way his smile thawed the ice off the outer layers of his heart, see it with every painstakingly cooked breakfast that found its way onto a plate in his lap every Sunday morning, a glass of orange juice in Viktor’s free hand and a sparkle of hope in his eyes.

                Of course Viktor loved him, why wouldn’t he? How could he not?

* * *

 

                The first month alone brought along a cleansing. Phichit had called it necessary, storming into Yuuri’s shattered home like a wild stallion being broken in with a wave of his hand and a pinch of his brows. “You can’t wallow in the memory of him, of what you two _were_ Yuuri, you won’t get anywhere like this.” And he was right, of course he was. Reminiscing in the misery every night held him captive to his own depression, a self-inflicted prison he stayed secure inside.

                Depression was numbing.

                Grief was better than feeling that overwhelming emptiness that haunted him, fried every one of his nerve endings and shut him out from the world. It kept him rooted in his now, the very present reality of what his life had spiraled into; a sad broken man at the age of twenty five, left in the lurch by his partner of three years on their wedding day.

                The only day in their lives they ever had to publicly commit to each other.

                Yuuri didn’t think he was asking that much, but with the makeshift bed he had contrived after a Saturday night bender that he spent in the bathroom taunting him on the couch from his position on the floor by the kitchen island, maybe he didn’t really have much evidence to back up his claim. After all, no matter how miserable he was now, one thing remained the same; Viktor left.

                “What if I want to just… fester in this for a while, Phichit? Maybe I need to, I don’t know, wrap my head around it. Accept the situation for what it is or something. It’s a comfortable constant, anyway.” He can hear the way his friend exhales softly through his nostrils, fingers twitching into rolled fists but remaining put at his side. Through everything Phichit was, perhaps, the most patient friend Yuuri had at his side, and he could say it clear as day when his best pal of seven years stands there in the hallway and _wills_ himself not to lose it.

                Losing it is selfish, of course it is. When people were around Yuuri, anything revolving them was rude, it should be about _him._ It was, after all, his wedding day that was ruined, his life that fell apart, and his love that burned up faster than kindling. He was the victim here, his friends had to respect that. Yuuri couldn’t be expected to console them like he had before, putting that wasted Psychology degree of his to use for once instead of sitting around uselessly hoping that something would change.

                At least, that’s what Chris had said.

                But Yuuri figured that, maybe, if people wanted to be a little selfish around him, it might make it easier on him to accept the fact that his wounds were still open and raw because _he_ refused to stitch them up. Phichit, for every wonderful thing that he could ever praise him to be and more, never hesitated to unload himself on the single man. It helped. It distracted.

                _It makes me feel wanted._

                “Look, Yuuri, I’m not here to stop you from accepting the situation on your own time. Honestly, if I were, I’d fully expect you to kick my ass right back out, but that’s just me being one hundred percent with you. I’m here, however, to help you at least make some progress to accepting things. I think starting with the pictures might be a good spot? And then we can go from there?”

                It takes a moment, but the taller man currently tightly tucked together in the floor nods as his gaze flicks up for a brief moment, “Yeah, pictures sound good. Pictures I can do.” And thank Phichit for not pressing and rubbing his hands together instead to segue them into action, because Yuuri wasn’t sure he could take another weekly interrogation without falling apart. He could only hold himself together for so long, but at least he has started to own up to the fact that training his eyes to the picture above their hearth of Viktor holding Yuuri from behind underneath a tree in late Autumn wasn’t exactly _helping_ him either.

                “Progress,” he breathed.

                “I don’t need him.”

* * *

 

                On the third month he broke down in his car on the side of the highway at forty five minutes after seven PM on a Tuesday, body shaking and eyes pressed shut tight because this was easily one of the top five most embarrassing moments of his life; right after being pantsed in the fourth grade when he transferred schools and then having Viktor walk out of his life.

                _Oh, right,_ he bit, _that’s why I’m crying in the first place._

                It wasn’t Viktor himself, per se; Yuuri had gone a solid two months with no contact from the other man outside of his hand written “I love you, I’m sorry” on the back of a napkin. It was an accomplishment on its own how long his resolve has held out; he still had Viktor’s number, he still knew where Viktor lived in Russia.

                He had been there before, a week before Christmas the last two years they had been together so they could spend his birthday in _his_ home, talked to Viktor about uprooting himself from his ever temporary residence in Chicago and just moving there if it was what would make him happiest, but of course that didn’t matter.

                It was invasive. An invitation to _stay_ that Viktor had never intended on letting him have, until it was too late. Instead he gave that tight smile he was known for back in Central Chicago at the firm; the one he gave clients when he told them there was nothing he could do. _The_ Viktor Nikiforov was a man with extraordinary talents, a cunning wit that set him above the rest, and a stronger resolve than any other wandering soul had that Yuuri managed to come across in his twenty five years; a no from Viktor in terms of representation was like pounding the final nail in your own coffin.

                There was no lack of talent on his part, just faith and willpower.

                It was with the same vague warmth that he declined potential defendants in which he whispered “Moya Solnyshko” against Yuuri’s neck every night. His intention was comforting, a more literal blanket statement than he intended it as it fell upon desperate ears and wrapped itself around their ever growing infatuation like a starving serpent.

                And it was that false hunger for warmth that proved to be too much that night, the tinny strumming of Johnny Cash sparkled through the speakers and a soft growl to start out the only song that would ever prove to ruin him threatening him there in the tight space of his Prius on the side of I-190 pushing him over the edge. It wasn’t _fair,_ it wasn’t right that Viktor had so much power over him. It wasn’t fine that he could still be this shaken up two months later, alone on a Tuesday evening on his way home from the office, while he pictured Viktor making himself comfortable in the embrace of a newer, less damaged lover.

                Finding his place in the world between satin sheets and soft lips, letting out those breathless moans Yuuri loved and whispered encouragements, because Viktor never dared to be loud; never dreamed of letting them get caught, lest the neighbors be privy to asking them about their night. To Yuuri it was a sound argument, he’d rather they never know, and Viktor knew best for these things. In his own regard, the youngest Katsuki child revered Viktor as a savior in a certain light, and reflecting upon his own actions, it’d make sense why he ran.

                Viktor never asked to be a messiah for the damned.

                Yuuri never asked for anything from Viktor in return, only that he stay honest.

                He’s not sure what hurts more:

                The fact that Viktor never was, or that he thought his lover would be.

* * *

 

                He spends his birthday packing up a trash bag of tainted memories, old articles of clothing that belonged to Viktor and had managed to make themselves comfortable in the darker corners of his closet and dresser. Small things that Viktor hadn’t thought important enough to take back home with him, but essential enough to let his ex back in Chicago quietly fight with himself on the issue of donating them or keeping them anyways.

                Ultimately it wasn’t _his_ decision to make, Minako had done it for him.

                “I seriously doubt you’d want him holding onto _your_ clothes, Yuuri.”

                “He doesn’t have any, Minako, so it doesn’t mat-“

                The fifty four year old can only shoot him a sharp glare from across the room before he presses his lips together firmly in defeat. She was right, they both knew it, he’d hate if Viktor was living his life and making a new future where Yuuri wasn’t in it while he kept Yuuri’s favorite shirt squirreled away in the bottom of his laundry basket like it belonged there. His clothes would only function to remind him that the man he loved, still _did_ , was better off.

                He may have run, but he made the right choice, nestled in the hold of someone else. Someone better and more confident, with a sharper smile and better resolve than Yuuri could have ever managed. Someone who inherently wasn’t too much of a burden. Viktor deserved so much more in his life than a man with a crippling fear of initiating phone calls and going to the doctor on his own, someone who couldn’t handle confrontation in the office because he was loathe to admit that anyone might actually hate him. They probably did, but it was easier to pretend otherwise.

                It was easier to pretend that he fit into Viktor’s life like water that filled in the gaps that sand left behind, compacted them as one universal constant and a being wholly unstoppable. He liked to think that’s what they were; a force to be reckoned with, a shared love that transcended beyond all levels of understanding and comprehension. But, when he found himself sitting fully clothed in his empty bathtub once a week, staring at that spot on the corner of the ledge surrounding him where Viktor’s soap used to be, it was hard to convince himself that they were.

                Or, at least, convince himself that he was good enough for the Russian legend.

                So, instead of wallowing more like he’d prefer, he pushes himself upright and moves over to where Minako is shoving the pile he had made of things that weren’t his to touch into a trash bag, her focus unwavering even as she nods at him in appreciation. “These aren’t going to do any good here collecting dust in your closet, and there are plenty of people in this city who could use a touch of the care that Nikiforov took into keeping himself warm since he didn’t see it as pertinent to bring along with him. This is a _good_ thing. Think of it as your present to yourself, okay?”

                 “My present?” Is it considered a present when you get something you never asked for, never dreamed of ever getting in your lifetime? Was that how these things worked? He wasn’t sure, but he _was_ confused because regardless of the what, the question as to why hung awkwardly in the air between them. Minako paused for a brief moment to let her gaze flash over him before a frown settled itself between the creases in her cheeks her smile had made twenty years prior.

                “You forgot it was your birthday, didn’t you?”

                She seems sated with the look of unabashed shock that passes across his features before he lets himself rest into one of neutrality again. Of course he had forgotten his own birthday, he was pointedly forcing himself not to look at the calendar to give himself some self-created peace of mind that time wasn’t marching forward. It was easier to cope with the loneliness if it still felt fresh, but knowing four months had passed was vaguely more distressing than the fact that his old ballet instructor was tossing out the clothes his ex had left behind.

                “I just didn’t see a reason to celebrate.”

                “Yuuri, there’s plenty of reason to celebrate. You’re alive, aren’t you? I know it hurts, I do, believe me. I’ve been there myself, and it doesn’t get easier, not immediately. But you’re still _here_. You’re still living life and you are still marching on through your days and going into work because not even having him leave you is enough to hold you back. You deserve to celebrate your birthday, and you deserve to remind yourself that you _can_ live without him. You already are.”

                Minako makes a concerted effort not to call out to him when he excuses himself.

* * *

 

                Phichit was the one who insists on taking him out four days into December, citing a ‘late birthday treat’ as his excuse. “I think getting out will be good for you, Yuuri, and it’s not even really a _club_. It’s super relaxed, it’ll take your mind off things.” And it would, of course, if Yuuri could get enough alcohol in his system to forget what he was even doing, but a strong willed Thai boy he had met his sophomore year of college had no plans to let that happen.

                He was supposed to go out with friends, have fun and escaped the sorry, rancid excuse for an apartment that he had locked himself up in for once. Chris had called it ‘Operation: Rebirth’ over the rim of his glass, eyes hooded and locked on his own husband across the table, a small knowing smile on his lips and a spark of mischief in his eyes.

                It felt.

                Wrong. To have him there, celebrating with Yuuri’s notably small social circle, making small talk with the six other people at the table like he _wasn’t_ the outlier out of all of them; the only one who was still in contact and affirmed friends with the man that had sent the birthday boy into a spiraling depression in the first place. To Chris’ credit, he had made it known that he was at odds with his longtime friend over the whole situation, keeping a respectable distance between them as he favored Yuuri’s side over Viktor’s. He had every right to be there with them, talking and celebrating and supporting Yuuri because they knew he needed it. Needed them.

                So, instead, Chris refused to bring up or humor any prodding questions about the runaway groom that are brought up over drinks, and as Yuuri progressively settles into a mild social euphoria, he realizes he couldn’t be more grateful to have him there. To have _everyone_ there; Phichit, Yuuko, Takeshi, Leo, and Minako stepping up for their night out on the town, even if the man they were in celebration of was insistent on staying to the one dive they had found.

                Minako and Phichit both, bless their kindred souls, had stopped Yuuri after drink four so he wouldn’t get carried away and could enjoy himself in a frame of mind that he’d at least allow himself to recall the day’s events the next morning. It was a responsibility they had put upon themselves, one momentary shared glance was all it took before they had flagged down their waiter and asked them to hold off on serving the birthday boy. That was fine.

                The whole night was fine, actually, much to Yuuri’s own chagrin. It felt wrong how he had let himself wallow in his own despair, making a bed out of misery in the darkness of his home, and lit candles to warm the cold that had enveloped his heart. He had always seen Viktor as an ice prince of sorts; ethereal and menacing from a distance, a statuesque personification of _power_ and intelligence. Viktor was a god in his own rights, molded by his own determination to be better than what his family had said he’d be. Yuuri remembered finding that admirable, becoming so strong at such a young age purely out of spite and willpower.

                He didn’t think he’d ever be strong, but he was fine with watching Viktor be strong for both of them. It was an easy place to settle, that frameset of mind that Yuuri wasn’t enough to be strong on his own, but Viktor was. Oh, Viktor could hang the stars in the sky and bring moon down to him if he had ever asked, and he almost did one night in a post-coital haze that always permeated inside him to his bones. He remembered so fondly Viktor’s questioning stare, those glaciers that had steeled themselves all his life melting with affection and love, and he never could bring himself to say it.

                Yuuri never _had_ to, Viktor always knew what he wanted. It was a deeply ingrained, instinctual personality trait that the Japanese man had grown so fond of in the other. It was an easy way of finding a middle ground for them, and more often than not Yuuri would find himself thankful for all the times Viktor just _knew_. An unspoken bond between them, something that was so deeply rooted in their relationship that it just worked. They worked. Viktor had called him perfect, Yuuri had said he was absolute.

                Maybe it was time he started to believe the man who broke his heart, started living his life regardless of what Viktor may or may not be doing, because _he_ was _perfect_ and there wasn’t a soul on this planet who would change his worth. Not himself, not his friends, and especially not Viktor Nikiforov himself. Yuuri’s worth was determined on his own, mapped out under a boozy haze and a low yellow light in a booth in the middle of the Bottom Lounge. It was an act of self-reflection driven by alcohol and solidified by sheer will.

                Yuuko was the first to notice his shifting attitude, but instead of commenting on it to the table, she instead lifted one perfectly shaped eyebrow in his direction as he pushed himself out of the booth and made way for the dancefloor. He was here tonight with _his_ friends for _his_ birthday, and no breakup or severed engagement was ever going to keep him from living his life.

                Not anymore.

                Phichit is quick to follow his determined friend, the only one out of their group with a solid enough frame of mind to handle the astronomical whirlwind that was Yuuri Katsuki on the dancefloor. He learned very young how to command an audience, wrap their attention around his pinkie and pull them in with the way his body melted into the rhythm. It was something he had always been praised for, namely by Viktor when they’d dance alone at two AM in the candlelight, bodies flush and hips swaying gently to the rhythm of their humming.

                It was Viktor’s idea to dance with no music, insisting Yuuri’s body made it on his own, the natural rhythm of his movements was enough to keep the older man on beat with him. It was Yuuri’s natural grace that moved them about their bedroom, pale flingers splayed wide on his hips with a gentle grip that begged for the shorter man to take him where he wanted. There was never opposition, though sometimes Yuuri would pass the metaphorical baton of lead to Viktor, and they always, _always_ , would wind up sprawled out on the bed, laughter high in the quiet of the night and tears rolling down their cheeks in gentle waves.

                A simple serenity that Yuuri _craved_.

                So he marched with a purpose, head held high and body loose to the beat, out to the middle of the dancefloor, and took Phichit by the wrist and demanded his attention because _that_ was what Yuuri was good at. He was always so good and getting everyone’s eyes on him, a desperate part of his personality craved the attention that he couldn’t regularly and comfortably seek out sober. It was easier this way to take the stage, demand himself an audience with the patrons and make them wish they could move half as well as he did.

                Dancing was a freeing thing, liberating and unmatched to anything else Yuuri could do. It was a physical expression of himself, an ode to his past loves and future endeavors, a love song to the people who always believed in him. He made steady pay in an office running a nine to five shift in the heart of Chicago, working as a criminal profiler alongside some of the top attorneys in the country who thought they’d never need his help, but it wasn’t that same burning satisfaction he got from dancing that had taken his heart back when he was newly turned six years of age and bright eyed with determination.

                With his back pressed up close against the front of a stranger, unfamiliar arms around his waist and lips brushing against the nape of his neck, he wonders if he’s really missing out on anything. He questions his younger self, so wistful and adoring of the way a dancer moved, curious as to what he was thinking that led him here, center stage at a Chicago club with heavy gazes from strangers weighing on him, and the all too real assumption from the man behind him that he was looking for anything but a dance partner.

                He really just wanted an escape.

* * *

 

                During month seven Yuuri finally loses himself at work.

                It should have been the obvious end, circumstantially, but he had so much blind faith in himself that he fell victim to his ever rampant anxiety. He’d become stronger in the past few months, taking himself out with friends and socializing for a start, he was getting _better_ now, starting to heal. A part of him, rather large and foreboding, was proud of his progress, but a nagging itch in the back of his mind told him he had no right to move on.

                Yuuri’s coworkers seemed to share the same sentiment, eyeing him curiously that Monday morning when he shows up with a five o’clock shadow and the ill-fitting suit he had made his working class debut in, hair an upright mess and black bags under his eyes more telling than anything else about him. However, the oddest part of his look that morning was, perhaps, the small smile that he wore on his face, a thin line of quiet appreciation that didn’t go unnoticed by his colleagues.

                He first hears Avery comment on the way to his office, a hushed whisper in the breakroom on their floor to Marlene about how ‘much happier he looks today’ and that ‘he even brought that awful suit back that Viktor hated’. He was sure Marlene had commented in return that he ‘surely must have moved on by now’, but he hadn’t stuck around long enough to hear it.

                At lunch he hears his neighbor talking, leaving his own office to Yuuri’s right with August hot on his heels, the shuffling of paper heard just above the sounds of their voices, “I’m glad Katsuki’s starting to look up. Maybe tomorrow he’ll shave and dress to the nines again looking like Nikiforov never even happened.” August hums a bit, tucking his portfolio under his arm before flashing Yuuri a look through the glass window of his office, “Yuuri’s been here for a long time, dude. He’s a good guy and one hell of a profiler, I’m not sure what the hell Nikiforov didn’t see in him but Yuuri’s better off. He doesn’t need an asshole like that in his life.”

                They both startle, and Yuuri’s not really sure if it was because he stood and slammed his chair into the wall, or the fact that he finally, _finally_ broke in front of everyone and kindly asked them to “shut the fuck up”. He’s not really sure it matters either way, he’ll have to pay for the repairs needed for the wall now that there’s an armrest sized hole in it, and he’d rather go home early today and forget everything happened, but that includes talking to his boss _and_ telling her what just happened and he knows that’s not the most preferable option.

                “Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” he comments, cheeks flushed in embarrassment from his own behavior more than their discussion and he’s ashamed to have to finally have a conversation with them after seven months on the ground of defending himself _and_ his ex-fiancé. It’s really amazing how far he has come since then, “My personal life is my concern and my concern only. My relationship with Viktor, past or present, is not your gossip fodder. Viktor was then and always _will_ be too good for me. He broke my heart, and I will admit that until the day I die, but let me tell you one thing.

                “There is not a bone in my body or a fried nerve in my system that could ever bring itself to hate him. I don’t. He left me at the altar, and I _should_ hate him, but I know Viktor. I know how kind he is, and how much he loved me. I know the way he looked at me, and I remember how much warmth he had in his voice when he told me he loved me. I know he ran for a reason, I get it. I don’t know what that reason is, and as much as I want to figure it out, that’s his business and I’m not going to push it. Stop acting like he never deserved me; there was never a day that went by in our relationship that I deserved _him._ ”

                August has the decency to look guilty as Yuuri berates them, hanging his head low and tightening his grip on his cooling coffee, but his neighbor -Randall? Ralph? Sven? - only managed to scoff and leave the scene as fast as he had entered it. There was no shame to workplace gossip, there were no feelings held into account while everyone whispered to each other in the corners of the building and in the stairwells of the parking garage next door. No one was safe from their whispered Bible, the book of innate truths none of them could ever deny. Yuuri at least wished he could have managed to stay out of their circle longer than he had.

                So, instead, he grabs his bag and shoulders his way out of the office, door ajar and light still on purely out of his own humiliation and need to just _leave_ , and August knows that Yuuri won’t be coming back, not that day at least, and turns the light off and shuts the door for him instead. It doesn’t make up for what he was saying, he gets that.

                But at least Katsuki manages to shoot him a softer look over his shoulder before he heads out to the elevator.

* * *

 

                March roared in with a fire of need, that ever present homesickness he had had since three years back when he _finally_ got his work visa and officially moved to America coming in strong. He’d been back twice since then, both times with Viktor, and seen his family three times in total, the last without him. They called a lot in the first few months, worried and stressed about how Yuuri was holding up, but he kept them at arm’s length and they relented enough to let him take his breakup at his own pace.

                He had called them on the night Phichit took him out back in December, drunk enough not to care and sober enough to apologize for pushing them away. He remembered how his mother cooed at him over the phone, hushed him in that way she always had when he was a boy, and told him “Don’t you ever, for a minute, think that we’re mad at you for that. We will always love and support you, no matter how far back you push us.”

                Looking back that was likely why Minako had drove him back home, hiccupping out choked sobs between mindless chatter that no one could translate properly because he just _had_ to learn Russian too ( _“It’s only fair, he knows Japanese”_ ), and any drunken babbling was reduced to an awkward conglomeration of the only three languages he knew. The group had _tried_ to get him to stick to at least English or Japanese, but out of pure spite he bit back in Russian and pressed his red face into Chris’ side.

                Only now it was March, and Yuuri hadn’t called back since, and the aching guilt that nagged him from afar crept up and assaulted him overnight. He hadn’t been home since December the year prior, just before they had gone to Russia for Viktor’s birthday, and he so desperately needed an escape from his apartment for a while.

                A sigh had broken past the thin barrier his lips had made before he allowed his left hand to dig its heel into his eye to rub away the exhaustion he felt. It was four AM in Chicago, which means it was six PM in Hasetsu and a good time for a business lull to give his family a call. He pushed himself up off the couch, still favoring it at night rather than his bed that had (mostly) remained untouched since July, wandering into the kitchen to take his phone off the charger.

                There’s a brief moment of hesitation, that lingering “what if they’re angry” that always kept him from calling, but Mari had texted him a selfie of her, mom, and dad and he finally had a reason to take Viktor off his background. It’s grounding, really, to see their smiles any time he’s tempted to do something stupid ( _“Like call Viktor”_ ) and know that, no matter what, they still love him. They’re still at home in the onsen waiting for him, love in their hearts and a familial tenderness in their eyes he could never find secondhand in some seedy bar.

                He deserves to go home to his family.

                He swipes his thumb over the screen to unlock it, the phone already pulled up from where he had chickened out last night before he went to bed, and he’s quick to find Mari in the recent calls before he’s dialing back. He knows they miss him, and he misses them too, and even when they refuse to push him, Mari still makes sure to call him once a week at tell him they love him anyways.

                She answers with a cough, a raspy puff of air against the receiver that has him pulling the phone away from his ear before he can hear her talking to him finally, “Hey, Yuuri. It’s been a while, what’s up? Everything all right over there? Isn’t it, like… Three AM or something in Chicago?”

                “Four,” he answers, a light dusting of pink on his cheekbones visible to no one else except himself, “but I wanted to talk to you guys, if that’s okay? I know it’s six over there, I was hoping things wouldn’t be too busy for a call. I’m sorry I didn’t text beforehand, I-“

                “Whoa, kiddo, it’s fine. We can step away from what we’re doing to talk to you if you need it.”

                Of course they _could,_ but he’d rather they didn’t. He was impeding on their work like this, invasive and demanding because he felt a little needy, and he finds himself being mildly off put by his behavior. His family had their own lives outside of his, running the inn and doing their best for him from Japan and ceaselessly answering his calls no matter when they came in. They did so much for him, too much if you wanted Yuuri to be honest with you, but they never once complained about it.

                He doubted they ever would.

                “No! No, I can talk to you, if that’s okay? Don’t make them stop what they’re doing, it’s fine.”

                Mari is quiet for a long moment and Yuuri can visualize just how her brows are pinching in the middle of her forehead in skepticism towards him, but she’s going to favor keeping that to herself for having him carry on the conversation. “It’s fine with me, I was just doing laundry. Nothing I can’t pick back up once we’re done. The doctor’s in, Yuuri, what can she do you for?”

                “I want to come home.”

                If you had asked him months later just what kind of silence had sparked up after his comment, he’d have said it was the kind where you could hear a pin drop, something overwhelming and all-consuming as he sat there on a stool at his bar and waited for her to say something. Anything. No would have been better than hearing nothing from her. It was less irrational to think that she had gotten disconnected somehow, it wasn’t odd with these long distance calls, but that bruised organ in his chest that kept on beating out of his sheer stubborn nature could feel that ache again telling him she hadn’t.

                She lets out a long, slow breath and he can tell now that she’s trying her best to figure out how to calculate her next response carefully; she’s not looking to set him off, and she’s not looking to scold him either. Mari was always very careful with him, decisive in the way a sister would be when her brother needed gentle encouragement with strong undertones. Only his sister could be that sound voice of reason for him, no matter how badly he always looked to his mom for advice.

                It was never something he asked of her, never something he wanted to put on her as far as pressure goes, but Mari was always extremely self-aware, very conscious of the things that Yuuri needed from her and he was always so grateful for that. He hears her click her tongue and slide open one of the doors to the inn, and he guesses she’s stepping outside for a smoke, but out of the courtesy for their parents she may want to keep this conversation private for the moment.

                “You can come home whenever you want, Yuuri, you realize this right?”

                “I do, yeah, but-“

                “No, no buts.” Her tone was sharp, smooth like a freshened blade against the tension of their conversation. It’s not accusatory or scornful, but she knows what path he is taking them both down, and _he_ knows she’s not going to let him do it. She never had before. “I mean it, you can come whenever. We’ll never turn you away. You could show up tomorrow with all your belongings in tow with no word to us and we would _still_ take you in, Yuuri. We love you. I know you get anxious, but please bro, if you need to come home for a vacation or something, just do it. That’s what we’re here for.”

                He hadn’t considered the possibility that this might be a vacation, but he lets himself dwell on her wording for a moment before responding now that she’s shed some unintended light on his reason to go back home in the first place. He _could_ take a vacation. Go back and spend time with his parents and sister, meet up with Minako now that she’s back and apologize for his birthday ordeal. He could go back to the beach, bury his toes in the cool morning sand and let the wind creep under the collar of his shirt with a caress he hasn’t had since June. He thinks he gets the appeal now, looking back, to what home really offered him versus what he got in America.

                Sure, he had a stable job and a great income, but at what cost?

                “I’ll be there Saturday.”

                “Okay. Yeah, okay, I’ll tell mom and dad. Text me your flight information when you get it, okay? I want to know when you’re getting on and off your flights.” She takes a moment to pause, most likely to take a drag from her cigarette, before she speaks up one more time, “And Yuuri?” It’s questioning, almost hesitant in nature, a new tone to Mari Yuuri wasn’t familiar with and wholly unwilling to test the waters of alone. He would rather hang up, pretend their call dropped and be done with it, but she’s desperate and he can tell. She needs this as much as he does.

                “Yeah?”

                “I love you. I’m always here if you need me.”

                A pause. Just a beat of a second, and he closes his eyes and forces himself not to cry, not yet.

                “I love you too. Thanks.”

* * *

 

                Yuuri finds that, when the panic starts to bubble in his throat and his breathing sputters as uselessly as an old car trying to get itself home, hiding in the bathtub is always a good plan. He held himself together when he got back to his apartment, composure wavering but still visible in his movements as he wandered through his home in the most mechanical way he had in weeks. It was cathartic to let his body _be_.

                He doesn’t remember getting to his bedroom and stripping down to his dark navy briefs, but he did; and he doesn’t remember turning off the light in the bathroom before he curled up at the bottom of the porcelain tub, but here he was. He kept his mind at bay with thoughts of home, his breathing steady with ten counts that his old therapist had drilled into him. His hands are clammy, finding it hard to gain purchase against his legs as he so desperately wants to, but he keeps them there anyway.

                There’s no warmth of the light and no ambiance to distract him, just his thoughts and his habits that keep him at bay. He’s twenty six years old, curled up in the fetal position at the bottom of the bathtub at eight PM, but he can’t find a bone in his body that is willing to move enough to get him out of there. When he was younger, around seven years old, the bathtub in his old home had become his refuge when he needed to relax. His mother had explained to him that the cool porcelain would help ground him, and sometimes people needed to wedge themselves into smaller spaces just to find themselves again. She always made sure he knew that he was fine.

                Yuuri was not broken.

                Yuuri was not _damaged goods._

                He felt like it, in that moment, body trembling on its own accord and he can’t put his finger on whether it’s because of the temperature encasing him or the fact that he’s mostly nude in an empty bath. He wants to think it’s at least the former, that gives himself justification for the latter that this _wasn’t_ ridiculous, but he knew better. Really, he should have known he’d wind up here when Yvonne had showed him the group picture of J.J’s bachelor party that Mark from accounting had sent her; Viktor, smiling and radiant under the low lights of the bar, with that toned arm of his around the waist of some _stranger_ , letting himself have the audacity to be photographed.

                Yuuri tells himself Viktor did it knowing he’d see it, but that’s unlikely. He thinks his panic attack would have fared better if he knew Viktor’s showing of affection was a ploy to make him angry, but it _wasn’t_ ; it was so painfully genuine, and he had that bright spark in his eyes that he had whenever he had seen Yuuri, and maybe now that it had been so long they were both allowed to move on, but it _hurt_ to know that Viktor left _him_ but he gets to be happy.

                He could be happy if he let himself, but the problem with that was moving on, and moving on meant giving up and giving up meant letting Viktor go. The older half of his withered soul always commended him on his strength, told him how amazing he was to be doing the things he dod and how proud he was of Yuuri for not letting _anything_ hold him back.

                It’s a bitter thought to have as he drifts to sleep, curled up alone in the darkness of his bathroom, cold porcelain to keep him company and body aching to be held by the only person who ever mattered.

* * *

 

                He receives a letter on the 20th of June asking him to R.S.V.P to the nuptial ceremony of a one Jean-Jacques Leroy and his partner of seven years, Isabella Yang. A power couple of sorts in the firm, J.J having made a name for himself right around the time that Viktor had planned his extended vacation, a twenty five year old rookie with one hell of a bark when it came to the courtroom. He was the top of his class, graduated a year early and pushed himself into the rankings almost as quickly as Viktor had managed to. It’d be taboo for Yuuri _not_ to show up, especially since Isabella happens to be one of the few tolerable people at their firm.

                She made sure to handwrite on his invitation that she understands if he can’t come.

                He R.S.V.Ps for one regardless.

                He also chooses to ignore the fact that the ink bleeds a bit when a tear lands on the cardstock.

                Yuuri is fine.

* * *

 

                It’s Phichit who comes up to him in the breakroom, a cardboard cup holder with four precariously tilting orders for the Big Dogs™ inside, and a demand waiting on the tip of his tongue, “I know you R.S.V.P’d to J.J’s wedding – which is totally great man, glad to see you getting out there – but we’re going together. I’m not really your plus one since I already R.S.V.P’d myself? But it’s way better to be each other’s dates than going stag.”

                Odd that this was the first conversation they had had that day up until that point, and Yuuri wills himself to blink owlishly up at his friend before shoving his right hand in his front pocket out of habit and steeling his gaze over the Thai man’s shoulder, “I mean, sure. That’s fine.”

                Of course it was fine, it was Phichit’s idea after all. There was always this glint to his eye, a small point of mischief you could spot in the upper right corners of his irises, and Yuuri had become so well-tuned to his mannerisms he could spot it a mile away. The other man lets his lips curl up in a smirk, placing one hand on his cocked hip as the other takes on the sole duty of coffee king. “My goal here is to get you out and into the crowds, you know. You’ve been doing so well about getting out and socializing, I figured it was about time we actually took you to a big gathering of friends and showed you off.

                “Yuuri Katsuki is a single man and happier than ever and not even a _wedding_ can keep him from having a good time.”

                Either Phichit pointedly ignores the way his older Japanese friend flinches, or he doesn’t seem to notice as he pats him on the shoulder for good measure. “I’m really happy you’re doing this, Yuuri, honestly. I want you to get out there and have fun, and I _don’t_ want you to sit at home and wallow in your own little cocoon of self-loathing thinking you don’t deserve to be there.”

                “You’re right. I deserve to have a good time.”

                _I deserve to be happy_.

* * *

 

                It’s mid-July by the time he makes it to the tailor, apprehension set deep in his bones and a wary sweat on his brow. Guang-Hong had flown in for the wedding just two days prior, asking to go with Yuuri to get fitted for a suit together since they were both in need and were comfortable with each other. It was easier to do this with a friend, and a far less menacing reality to know that someone who knew his situation would be with him when he went back into _there_.

                A soft scent of pomegranates and lemon hits him as soon as his friend opens the door to the shop, the electric ting of the welcome bell shocking him right down his spine. The owner comes out of hiding, a small woman with the loveliest red curls he had ever seen, stockier than the average fashionista ( _but that makes her relatable, human, and I’m comfortable_ ) but no less happy to help them. She immediately recognizes him in the middle of her store again, stock still and pale against the fluorescent lights shining down on him.

                He sees that awkward look of pity in her eyes before she moves over to the two of them with a small wave of her hand, “Mister Katsuki, I wasn’t exactly expecting to see you here so soon. What sort of occasion do I have the pleasure of outfitting you for this time, hm?”

                A beat passes, and he knows there’s a flash of panic across his face from the way she lifts her brows at him.

                She knows.

                “A wedding.”

                She knows, and it’s more painfully obvious by the dusting rose across her cheeks when she eyes Guang-Hong to his left, “Ah, is this your groom then?” Really, he knows she’s trying her best, trying to be sensitive like she had been when he brought the tux back a week later and she insisted on refunding him for his trouble; whether it be the trouble of returning the outfit or the trouble of setting himself up for heartbreak, he wasn’t sure. His friend, on the other hand, is quick to raise his hands up in self-defense against her line of questioning.

                “No, ma’am. It’s not our wedding. We’re not together, just old colleagues. We’re _going_ to one. I figured it made more sense to get the suit while I was in the states than fly one over with me, and Yuuri here… Yuuri doesn’t really have many comfortable options back home.”

                Yuuri feels the way her eyes scan over him, slow and calculating, and she taps one perfectly manicured pink nail against her lips in thought before she ushers them further in the store, “Yes, yes, I see. Then I’m happy to be of help to you two gentleman, I apologize for my question earlier I just wanted to be…. Sure of what you needed.”

                _Wanted to make sure I hadn’t really lost my mind._

_Hadn’t really decided to marry again after that catastrophe._

_Make sure I wasn’t setting myself up for failure again._

                He finds it easier to bite back the bile in his throat when he’s smiling at her softly and pretending he was anywhere else _but_ there.

* * *

 

                Isabella had warned him a week prior to their wedding on just what level J.J had taken the event planning to, and he knew she did it out of worry that he may feel uncomfortable at the venue, but he gave her a wave of his hand and the softest smile he could manage. He’d be fine, it was just one night, a few hours, and they’d be done. He could go home at the end of the night, pour himself a cold glass of Rosé (because he _earned it_ , dammit), and light a fire in the hearth and watch it burn out on its own. One night wasn’t going to kill him.

                Everyone, however, failed to mention just _where_ they were going, working under the assumption that Yuuri had actually read the invitation rather than setting himself up to automatically reply by default. He trusted Phichit to get them there safely, he knew the address and he was comfortable enough with the roads of the inner city districts to get them there on time. If Yuuri had taken a moment for soaking in his surroundings before they pulled into the venue, he’d have noticed the hesitation on Phichit’s features to begin with.

                The Revel Fulton Market was something on the same vein as a fairytale location, the prime spot to get married if you wanted people to talk about it for years. He had brought it up to Viktor one night, curled up together under a cover by the fire as they flipped through some catalogues and began the journey of mapping out their future. His intended hesitated for just the briefest of moments, a small well of fear pouring into his eyes before he was all warmth and beaming smiles again.

                _“That’s a bit on the expensive side, no?”_

_“Ah, yeah, it is, but with our salaries we can more than afford it, and I think it’s a great spot.”_

_“Let’s… keep our options open, da? We don’t want to commit just yet.”_

Yet turned into never, and expensive was a cover for “I’m not looking to spend that much money on a wedding I don’t intend to participate in”. It was something that centered him, pulled him back to himself as he stepped out of the vehicle, hands instinctively reaching to the cufflinks at his wrists just to have _something_ to do. Yuuri had never been worth it to Viktor, he realized that two months ago during a midnight rampage he had in the hallway, and he had allowed himself time to wrap his mind around that thought; knowing that, no matter what they had decided, Viktor planned to leave regardless.

                He said yes, but it was an empty promise, and those kisses in the morning along the curve of his neck and against the shell of his ear were strategic jokes, gentle punchlines against his flesh. He had never felt so vulnerable before, but then again he had never opened himself up quiet like he had with Viktor, and he couldn’t find a foreseeable future where he’d do it again for someone else.

                It was better to close himself off.

                Phichit taking a step in front of him with That Look he had perfected brought him back to the here and now, a shaky breath pulling itself between his teeth and fighting against the currents of his rushing thoughts to keep him at bay. He was fine. This was a _happy_ event for his friends. J.J and Isabella were getting married in thirty minutes. They were going to spend the rest of their lives together, and he knew that much because he remembered how J.J had said he’d “never dream of pulling a Nikiforov”.

                Yuuri felt sick.

                But Phichit was there, his rock to steady him against the tides of reality, and he hooked his hands around two slender wrists that didn’t belong to him and forced eye contact from the only best friend he ever had, “Yuuri we don’t have to go in there if you don’t want to. I know Isabella will understand, this is a little awkward, and I-I know people are still talking about Viktor. It’s been over a year and it’s _still_ a joke and it pisses me off but I can’t really do anything about it.

                “But I won’t stop you from going home, okay? Just say the word. A code word, even. Maybe black bird? Or scarlet, that’s kind of sexy and mysterious. Does that sound okay?”

                Laughter only managed to bubble in his gut for a moment before it burst out all at once, much to the surprise of both of the men standing outside the building. Yuuri moved forward, taking his wrists away from Phichit’s hands, a soft smile on his lips and trust in his eyes.

                “I don’t think I’ll need a code word, but if I do it’ll be scarlet.”

                And he hadn’t.

                The ceremony was stunning, he would never deny that, not even to the gossipy Chris who _insisted_ Yuuri had better taste. The lighting was romantic, low and soothing after a long ceremony prior, lightbulb fixtures hanging from the ceiling giving the place a very modern and rustic vibe. The couple had decided on white and gold for their color scheme, and as hesitant as Yuuri would have been to do it himself, the simple elegance of the table fixtures and the colors of the napkins and placemats at their tables was a really gentle way of pulling the picture together.

                Yuuri had to admit that he was jealous, even if he didn’t have a right to be.

                J.J had insisted that his first dance with Isabella to be to a song composed for _them_ , a musical consummation of their marriage debuting to the world through tinny speakers and shuffled movements from the couple. Isabella seemed mildly flustered, though the apprehension in her eyes only proved to Yuuri that, perhaps, this had been J.J’s idea solely after all.

                They had opened the dancefloor up to the guests, a flock of bodies moving to the center of the room at once. It was an odd sight, so many well-dressed guests pressed up closely together, women in high cut dresses grinding on each other and men with finely tailored suits dropping low to prove a point.

                “Weddings are so ridiculous.”

                His musing was coaxed aloud when he had heard the chair to his right being pulled out, naturally assuming Phichit had come back to him with gossip ( _“Did you see how he was looking at them both? I smell a love triangle”_ ) but was instead surprised with a hot breath on his neck and a hand on his shoulder.

                “And here I thought you were a fan, Yuuri.”

                An apocalypse was far off, Yuuri knew that in the depths of his heart, but for one soul shattering moment everything stopped. The room deafened and his heartbeat rested. His mind took the time to recompose itself after the indescribable malfunction it had put itself through, and when the world came back online he turned to the person at his side, trembling, and locked eyes with melting glaciers again.

                “Viktor.”

                It was just a whisper, barely above a desperate breath, but the Russian man caught it with that smile that stole his heart, and Yuuri _ached_. Oh, how he wanted; so desperate to card his fingers through trimmed silver locks again, coiffed in an effort to look presentable for a wedding no one ever actually expected him to come to. Viktor’s lips had that shine to them, one that came with the honeysuckle lip balm Yuuri had bought him three years ago and he had refused to change since.

                Perhaps it was strange to keep hold of the gaze of a man who walked away, but Yuuri lifted a shaking hand to Viktor’s cheek, pleaded to him with watering eyes, and he let himself fall apart right there in the back right corner of the loft.

                “I’d really like to talk to you, if you’d give me this dance.”

                No part of Yuuri could ever manage to say no.

                “I don’t think you’d let me say otherwise.”

                “Ah, you know me well, my Yuuri.”

                _Yeah_ , he muses, _I thought I did._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you?” It’s hesitant, quiet enough that Yuuri has to make sure he wasn’t just assuming that his ex had spoken up, but it’s there. It weighs heavy in the air above them, an unanswered question he hadn’t even asked himself: had he gotten over Viktor?
> 
> “No, never.”

                Yuuri thinks that, maybe just once, he’s learned something.

                He’s learned how to angle his body away from Viktor’s pull, keep his head arched back from inquisitive ocean pools, to watch his feet as the man who broke his heart sweeps them both across the room. It’s an intimate moment, quiet beyond the thrumming of the music they swing to. It makes his anxiety pull at his gut, fingers curling into the smooth fabric over Viktor’s shoulders and he _knows_ his brows are pinching in the way that the taller man had always noticed.

                If he did now, he preferred not to comment. Yuuri’s not sure why that hurts.

                Viktor hadn’t made a move yet to talk, just going through the motions of a shallow waltz because they both refused to press any closer than was polite. The tension in the air was thick, like a tight coil around his throat that kept his apprehension to himself. He knew Viktor was aware of the mood, he _knew_ Viktor was debating something in his own head too. Yuuri knew because it was _Viktor,_ and no amount of months apart or tears shed will let Yuuri forget how he works.

                A meticulous, well-oiled machine. That’s what the firm had said, that was the image he maintained. It was easier for Viktor to keep up appearances when there were expectations of him, and maybe it was his refusal to put pressure on Viktor to be anything but himself that drove the final nail in the coffin that was their engagement. Maybe it was suffocating, restricting; an openness that the Russian man hadn’t had before, a chance to grow into someone different that he never wanted. Perhaps, in the end, maybe it _was_ Yuuri’s fault everything fell apart.

                When the music hits its peak is when his partner clears his throat, and with a subtle enough hint Yuuri catches on enough to angle his head back so he could make eye contact for the first time that night. It was intimidating, really, to stare up at Viktor; to see that same sparkle in his eye that flashed with every kiss good morning, and to see the way his lips curled up so gently in that affectionate way he always saved for their more private moments back home.

                But they weren’t home, they weren’t alone. They were dancing in the middle of the room, a polite distance between them and the awareness of the fact that this is a _wedding reception_ pushed to the backs of their minds. It was easier to manage that way, he had figured. It was easier to know that there were places to go. Phichit was here, Chris was here. He had his outs, he had people to run to and even if it killed him he knew there would never be a moment in their lives where Viktor Nikiforov would put him in a position he couldn’t cope with.

                “Yuuri, I-“

                “If you’re thinking of apologizing then I’ll stop you right there.”

                He’s taken back a bit by the blunt force of Yuuri’s quip, eyes wide and cheeks flushed in embarrassment. _Good,_ he thinks to himself, lips twitching in an effort to fight back the urge to smile. It’s rude to feel proud of himself for something like that, and it’s rude to pretend like Viktor didn’t have the right to talk. He did, and Yuuri wanted him to. At the very least, regardless of what Viktor wanted or what his goal was from this whole thing, _Yuuri_ deserved to know.

                “I wasn’t planning to, I know that I really have no right to after everything.”

                “No, you don’t.”

                It hurts, really, talking to him like this. Being honest with himself for once and allowing those feelings of hurt and anguish to take over and cloud his judgement. It hurts to know that he hadn’t seen or heard from the other man in thirteen months, and the bitter irony of meeting again at the reception of a friend’s wedding was not lost on him. It burned in the way a branding would, right over the swell in his chest where his heart rested. It was the pain of love lost and the anger that came with it, rolling tides of pent up rage and calm waves of acceptance. This is what they were, now.

                Perfect strangers.

                “I owe you an explanation. For leaving, for running away, for hiding myself from you when I know I should have just… opened up. And I’m willing enough to admit that, I made mistakes. I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, Yuuri, and you were there for most of them, but leaving you without talking was the biggest one I will ever make. I know I won’t do worse than that, and I _know_ I can’t act like this didn’t hurt you. I can’t pretend like my actions had no effect on you because I can see it in the way you hold yourself, and the way you curl your shoulders in because you like to keep yourself guarded. You don’t want to let people in, you don’t want to be vulnerable. I don’t blame you, I can’t. I did that, I acknowledge it, and I hate so much that I let that happen.”

                Yuuri is very pointedly _not_ looking Viktor in the eye as he speaks low, quiet under his breath so only Yuuri can hear him. He can hear the way his voice trembles, the way his accent falters when his emotions flare and he swears he can _hear_ the frown in the way he owns up to what he did. He can’t decide yet if he’s falling apart more than he already had, or if the pent up resentment from the past thirteen months becomes too much of a burden on his aching soul. He thinks it’s probably the latter with the way his grip tightens on the wool of Viktor’s suit jacket. He knows it is when he trembles on his own after a minute of passing silence.

                “You don’t have that much power over me.”

                “Yuuri-”

                “No,” he snaps, voice heavy with emotion and whispered between them like a curse, “listen to me. You left me. On the day we were supposed to get _married,_ you, Viktor Nikiforov, ran away. I know what happened. I know what you did. I also know that my grief and heartache was _mine_ alone. You may have been what started it all, but I let myself dwell on it. I let those feelings ruminate in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. I festered in resentment and I sanctioned myself off. I didn’t want help, I didn’t want pity. You may have left me, but don’t think for a _minute_ you ever have enough power to be the reason I keep to myself.

                “You couldn’t have let anything happen. You made your decision, and as much as I hate it, I realized a long time ago that what I was dealing with was my own thing. I don’t need your permission to feel sorry for myself, and I don’t need your permission to get over you.”

                He’s pressed his face into Viktor’s chest, the other man’s jacket a glorified sponge for his tears as Viktor moved to sway them back and forth instead. It wasn’t invasive, and a part of Yuuri hated that Viktor knew what to do. They knew each other so _well,_ it wasn’t fair. It was downright cruel to stand here with the belief between them that they had given each other up. It was criminal to think they could do this without letting their past muddy the waters of their future. Yuuri hates that he loves the way Viktor holds him so much, loathes the way his face fits into the crook of his neck like they were born two matching pieces of an impossible puzzle.

                “Have you?” It’s hesitant, quiet enough that Yuuri has to make sure he wasn’t just assuming that his ex had spoken up, but it’s there. It weighs heavy in the air above them, an unanswered question he hadn’t even asked himself: _had_ he gotten over Viktor?

                “No, never.”

                It was an honest answer, but it stung. It dug between the bones of his ribcage, pressing past the muscles of his heart and he swore the next day he felt it slide inside the very essence of his person. He could never get over Viktor, and he wasn’t sure if it was sheer spite that willed his emotions to stay faithful to the older man or a sheer inability on his own part to exist without him in his life. He felt Viktor dig his fingers into his hips, fingertips burning his skin through the cotton of his own formal wear. It was a reaction, physical to his emotional, a quiet reminder of _‘I’m sorry_ ’ against his flesh and oh, how he ached inside. As much as he didn’t want to get over Viktor, it was like Viktor didn’t want to get over him either.

                “I want to tell you everything, okay? I won’t keep anything back, I want you to know. Not here, not now. Just us. Or with Phichit and Chris, whatever you’re more comfortable with, I don’t care, but we _do_ need to talk.”

                An undeniable fact, especially at this point, so against his better judgement Yuuri relents to Viktor’s reasoning and nods. It’s the promise of next time that has him hooked, the hopeless fool that he was desperate to keep this untouched intimacy between them strong. He could have this much, he could have Viktor’s time, if only for an hour or two.

                Because when Viktor was done telling his story, done saying his piece and lifting the burden off his own shoulders, Yuuri would have to watch him walk back out of his life. He’d have to see him, this time, pass through a door he’d never come back through. He’d see the broad line of his shoulders as he shrugged on his jacket, and the curve of his spine as he stood up and bid him farewell. Quiet, polite pleasantries. Necessities for conversation. Viktor’s specialty in playing pretend. He was so, _so_ good at pretending.

                It was always an undercurrent of a thought that Viktor had been pretending the whole time.

                So he’d pretend himself that they were fine, he’d listen to Viktor and he’d soak in the reality of what was. He’d get the answer to the question that lingered behind him any time he saw the other man’s University sweatshirt that he had tossed into the back of the closet. He’d _get_ his closure, and it scared him to the bone, but he needed it. He needed to breathe again.

                “Okay. Just…. When and where?”

                “I’ll text you tomorrow, all right? We’ll work something out.”

                He doesn’t say goodbye this time. He doesn’t smile when he pulls back, but he does take Yuuri’s hand from his shoulder, his larger and steadier one encasing it like a cradle as he gives it a gentle squeeze. It’s a promise, Yuuri knows, he sees it in Viktor’s eyes. He won’t say goodbye because he’ll be back. He won’t smile because he’s not happy. He won’t pretend with Yuuri, he knows him too well.

                He loved him long enough to learn the nuances of a certified Viktor Nikiforov complimentary smile.

                Viktor is like a shadow as he cuts through the crowd, dark and unnoticed by the patrons as they mingled in their smaller circles. Yuuri hasn’t moved from his rooted spot yet, hands shaking and nerves on fire from an overwhelming amount of _Viktor_ in such a short span of time. Perhaps he had short circuited, he needed to get to his table to reboot. Get a drink and re-evaluate the situation from an objective standpoint. He _needed_ to get off the dancefloor, but he watched as a head of silver left the room, and his heart tugged heavy with the understanding of why he even said ‘yes’ to the invitation to begin with.

                Phichit finds him not two minutes later, hands placed firm on his hips and a perfectly manicured brow raised high as he regards his mournful friend, “What was that about?” Yuuri doesn’t think he really needs to go into details, he’s sure it was obvious that they had talked just judging by the blotchiness of his face. Weddings were supposed to be fun, but he had been to a grand total of two in his lifetime at this point and Viktor Nikiforov had managed to ruin both of them singlehandedly by leaving him alone.

                It hurt.

                “We talked.”

                “Yeah, _obviously_. Why?”

                He draws in a breath, shaky and unsure, and he drags his gaze down from the doorway Viktor had walked through back to his hands. They were calloused by years of work, abused by his affair with pens over typing and poor grip. He had a band aid on the left thumb, tight and steady around a papercut he had gotten two days ago as he put away the last file he had worked on. The last case _they_ had worked on. If the papers had fallen, well, he wasn’t really sure how it had happened.

                “He wants to explain himself. He’s not… Not apologizing or anything, he knows he can’t. There’s no reason to or point, and he doesn’t have the right to.” Yuuri lets his eyes meet Phichit’s own cinereal pair, a flash of minute rage hackling up beneath the gray before he steels himself into a mutual stance again, “I deserve to know why. He _knows_ that, that’s why he came here. He isn’t even asking for it to be just me and him, he says you and Chris can come too if I want it.”

                “Do you, though?”

                There’s a brief moment where Yuuri lets his eyes wander back to the doorway and linger, a niggling question of ‘ _what if’_ itching in the back of his mind as he turns back around with a deep inhale.

                “Yeah, I do. At the very least, you. I think Chris deserves to know too, all things considered.”

                “And I’m thinking you’re right. Are you good? Do you want to stay, or would you like me to take you back home?”

                Home. His apartment where he existed at night, but never really lived, the place where memories molded in the musty corners that he never bothered to clean. He let it become a place of misery, a hellhole crafted out of his own selfish need to feel sorry for himself. And he did. Ultimately, deep down, he _did_ feel sorry for himself. He felt sorry he was alone, he felt sorry he was even staying in the same place still after Viktor had left, but he craved the misery enough to renew the lease back in October. It was the fleeting memory of Viktor shuffling through the hallways in the early mornings that had him sleeping in, and the way his bed still had a dip where Viktor had slept that kept him on the couch all these months later. It was his own personal pit of agony, and that was his home. He was nothing without the other.

                “Yes, please.”

* * *

 

                Viktor texts him at five forty three PM sharp.

                Yuuri knows because he’s spent the entire day in bed, curled up in the hollow dip where Viktor used to be with his phone beside his head and the entire apartment void of any sound. Phichit had got him back home by seven the night before, and he had taken it upon himself to have a small glass of wine before drifting back to the bedroom. It had been thirteen months of a quiet affair with his couch, whispered confessions into the leather cushions when he wasn’t sober enough to filter his thoughts held in place by his pile of blankets.

                He wanted to be where Viktor had been, reminisce in the way the other man’s arms had felt around him as they danced. In the background he let Elton play softly, lulling him into a shaky rhythm as he swayed around his room alone. It was a poor mimicry of the dance they had shared, but it was _something_ substantial for once. He had something to remember, a touch that burned even still when his fingers ghosted over his hips.

                His phone was pulled off the charger as he pushed himself upright in bed, thumb swiping right on the screen to unlock it before he is greeted with the smiling faces of his family. When he had finally committed to changing the background on his phone he had no reservations about it, felt no guilt in finally being able to comfortably remove Viktor’s face from his life. But now, with an unanswered message waiting just beneath his thumb, that anxious worry of _‘what if he knows’_ creeps up his spine and settles right in where it’s most comfortable.

                Foggy thoughts keep him from diving into the metaphorical deep end of self-loathing, and he praises himself as he opens up his messaging app that he made it this far without combusting. He could text his ex back, he could set up a time to meet. It was an appointment, really, like one he’d have with a client. Impersonal if he could make it and as to the point as possible. Dragging out a final goodbye just twisted that knife in his chest more, and he was already very tired.

                The message flicked off his notifications as he opened up Viktor’s thread. He saw the new one at the bottom, dated for the present and so very real, but he couldn’t keep his gaze from wandering up. It lingered for a brief moment over his last message sent out, and he draws in his lower lip between his teeth as he forces himself to focus.

                _‘I get to marry you in two hours’_ haunts him as he reads Viktor’s message.

**Text From: Viktor N. 08-13 4:43PM**

Sorry, this is later than I intended. This is still Yuuri, right? 

                He wants to say no, give himself an out before he’s really even in, but even the bitter part of him realizes that’s not entirely fair to Viktor, and he at least deserved Yuuri’s time long enough to get a response back. Viktor was making the effort to explain, the least Yuuri could do was let him.

**Sent 08-13 4:45PM:**

                Yeah, it’s still me.

**Text From: Viktor N. 08-13 4:49PM**

                Fantastic! I was wanting to know when you were available or what worked best for you? I’m in town for a while, so it’s not really a concern for me.

                _Not a concern_ , he hums, and he runs his free hand through his mused hair as he stares down at the screen of his phone. He was free _now,_ they could go ahead and get it over and done with. Maybe it would be like ripping off a bandage, hoping the sting would pass quickly and he’d be able to live his life normally again. It’d be so simple to just plead “now, I’m free _now_ ” but he couldn’t seem desperate. Couldn’t afford to show that side of him.

                At least, not to Viktor.

**Sent 08-13 4:52PM:**

               I’m always free. Wednesday evening would probably be best, though, for Phichit and Chris.

**Text From: Viktor N. 08-13 4:53PM**

Ah, yes, wouldn’t want to leave them out of the picture. Wednesday at 4:30 work for you? We can meet at Asado?

**Sent 08-13 4:54PM:**

                Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll text Phichit and Chris, then. We’ll meet you there. 

                If Viktor responds, Yuuri doesn’t get it, opting to let his backup team know what the plan was before turning his phone off. He needed to disconnect from people, escape from this overwhelming emotion of finality that had washed over him. Their entire exchange was short, a passing of messages over the span of eleven minutes, but Yuuri could feel Viktor’s uncertainty in his words, and he knew that _both_ of them weren’t remotely prepared for what Wednesday was going to bring them.

                He thinks he’s fine with saying goodbye this time. Viktor had already left him. He couldn’t get lonelier than that.

* * *

 

                Phichit doesn’t say anything.

                Yuuri knows he _wants_ to, can see it in the way his temple twitches in agitation, but they’re both holding back. Yuuri slips his jacket off, the olive coat folding over his arm as he attempts to make himself smaller. He feels small, so minuscule in the presence of his friends and ex-lover, ever wandering eyes of the coffee shop patrons boring into the back of his head. It’s happening, he knows; the unsteady silence around them giving way to whispered jabs at him. He’s a fool. He should have known better. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sit here and listen to Viktor tell him why he left as he tries to drink the tea that _Viktor_ had bought for him.

                Just how he liked it, a milk tea with extra sweetener and an added dash of lemon. It hurt. It hurt, because Yuuri was keeping himself composed. His hands didn’t tremble and his legs never gave way, and as he takes a seat across from Viktor, eyes warm and thankful to a questioning sea of glass, he finds that this is natural for him – for _them_. He tried not to think about how Viktor had just so happened to pick their spot for tea and coffee, and he pretended he didn’t notice that this was their table.

                His seat and Viktor’s own, mirrored near the back of the store with a small setting of napkins and sugar in the middle of the table, were chosen for their relative location to everything in the store; the exit, the counter, the restrooms where he had taken Viktor to one morning post coffee, kissed the breath from his lungs and bit a promise of more against his jawline.

                This was intimate, an uncomfortable familiarity that had his hand twitching as he reached out for his cup. Chris’ stare wasn’t subtle, but neither was the way Phichit stared down the man who sat across from him, and Yuuri was wont to believe that neither party was exactly _aiming_ for that approach. Viktor’s own coffee steamed in its untouched state, a smell that took Yuuri back to the early mornings before they went into the office, coffee brewing and tea ready to be poured. It was those mornings where sunlight filtered through their blinds and brushed streaks of gold and amaranth across their wrinkled sheets that they stole careful whispers of ‘I love you’ between languid kisses and gentle touches.

                They were mornings neither wanted to wake up, the days where staying at home in bed wrapped up so wholly in each other was so much more appealing than anything that work could ever offer. If you asked Yuuri now, as he stared down at the steam from his cup, an overt awareness of the three pairs of eyes that rested on his shoulders, if he’d still prefer to be tangled in a mess of sheets with the only man he could say he truly ever loved over anything else in the world, he thinks he’d still let out a hushed yes.

                He’d admit to no one how much that bothered him.

                Admittedly, the whole situation _bothered_ him, but he sat idly beside the people who had come to support him, and across from the person he wanted to hide from the most. This was a raw, emotional moment for them; the vulnerability in Viktor’s eyes unmistakable to Yuuri’s own trained pair, and something ugly twists in his gut at the knowledge that _he_ can see how worked up Viktor is under the seven layers of well-kept he laid out. They had four years of history, four years of intimate knowledge of each other and their nuances. Yuuri _knew_ Viktor. He was hurting just as much.

                “Get on with it, Nikiforov, _some_ of us have things to do today that don’t involve trying to play the good guy.”

                Yuuri visibly winces at Phichit’s tone, and he thinks the other may have apologized in any other circumstance if it weren’t for the hard way Viktor and he stared at each other. It was an unspoken conversation, a level of understanding between them that Yuuri never could reach. It was their thing, this quiet form of communication, and as much as Yuuri was in awe of it, he respected that they had crafted it for themselves.

                “I’m not here to say I was in the right. I’m not here to apologize either,” Viktor retorts, his r’s sharp with a tone even Yuuri was unfamiliar with. He shifted a bit in his seat, hooking the forefinger of his left hand in the collar of his sweater to tug it forward subconsciously. “I told Yuuri at the reception I wanted him to know why I left, and that’s why I’m here. That’s why _he’s_ here. You two, however, are here because that’s what makes him comfortable. I don’t owe you two an explanation.”

                “If you think th-”

                “Please… Stop. Just.”

                Inhale. Breathe. Relax. He was fine. His hands _weren’t_ shaking and his breath _wasn’t_ rattling in his chest. He was okay.

                “Viktor, please. Talk to me. Phichit, it’s fine. He’s right, I wanted you two here to support me, but please don’t fight with him. This is for the two of us. I _need_ this.” And something in Phichit softens, whether it be his resolve or his will to fight, but he relaxes in his seat after letting an apology slip past the rim of his glass and Viktor is quick to refocus back on Yuuri again.

                “I think I should really start out saying that I did, and do, still love yo-”

                “ _Bullshit_.”

                There’s so much unadulterated venom in Phichit’s tone that Yuuri has to take a moment to compose himself, set his drink back down on the table as he forces his face to morph into an expression that less resembled the horror and shock he felt. They had been friends for a _long_ time. If anyone knew Yuuri better than Viktor did, it was Phichit, and there was this friendly level of protectiveness that came with the sort of bond that they had. For the past thirteen months _Phichit_ was the rock in Yuuri’s life, the steady lifeline in the hurricane of events that threatened to pull him out to sea. Phichit had taken on a role he had never wanted to, never wanted to be expected to step up for.

                No one wanted their best friend to have their heart broken. No one _wanted_ to watch them drink themselves stupid on the weekends after a wedding that never was because sobriety and free time was an ugly combination. It was a monster that fermented inside of Yuuri, reared its head and lashed out at the one person who didn’t turn him away. Phichit was the best thing that he could have had in his life after Viktor had left him, and even through the rage in his voice Yuuri can hear the plea there.

                _Why?_

“Phichit, stop. Let him talk.”

                He’s hesitant, Yuuri can see the stubborn glint in his eyes, but he lets his charcoal gaze rest back on Viktor’s own icy one and he resettles into his seat once more. Chris is keeping quiet, a flush of embarrassment high on his cheeks, and Yuuri would like to think it’s because of how Phichit acted that Chris is so flustered, but he’s not sold on it as Chris keeps his eyes hooked pointedly on the wall art above Phichit’s head.

                “As I was saying, I do still love you. It was never about falling out of love or never loving you. What I felt – what I _feel_? That was all real, all genuine. I may not have talked to you about things I should have, but there was never a day that we were together that my feelings for you were ever falsified. You need to know that first and foremost, above all.”

                And he did, he knew that. He knew that the itch inside his chest ached to hear the way Viktor said love again, and it nearly purred in contentment as the older man began to weave his story. There was no love lost, it wasn’t a tale of heartbreak and misery and scorned lovers and affairs. It was their story, _their_ turmoil, but it wasn’t a dark and dangerous thing. It was fragile, like fractures in a pane of glass on a windy day, but it held up.

                _We can fix this,_ his mind supplied, and he took another sip of his tea to busy himself with _not_ having a coughing fit.

                “I left… I left, Yuuri, because I was scared. And I know, I _know_ that’s not a good excuse. It never will be, and there will never be a time that I try to justify it as one. I spent so much time in my life alone, and I pushed people away on my own accord. I did that to myself; it was easier to get where I wanted if there were less people to hurt. But I found you in the bar, a diamond in the haystack of socialization, and I don’t know how I could have walked out of there without trying.

                “I did, too. I tried _everything,_ but you were so determined and stubborn. Always have been, and I love that about you. I’m a man with many wants, Yuuri, and I _wanted_ so much when I saw you. You had a pull to you that I couldn’t ignore, and you made me work for your attention. Nothing was handed to me, you didn’t come begging me for some of my time. I didn’t take you home that night, we didn’t sleep together. I gave you my number, asked you to text me if you wanted to try it all again sober, and you did.”

                Viktor takes a sharp inhale through his nose, eyes facing down now instead of across the table boring into his own features, and it’s off putting how uncomfortable they both are in that moment, sitting at _their_ table in _their_ coffee shop, talking about a breakup that never should have happened over two drinks neither of them had any right to remember the specifics of. It was all so familiar, and it stung.

                “I don’t need to tell you how we got together, or what happened in those four years. You know, you were there. You lived it with me, and despite _everything_ that has happened in my life, you gave me the best four years of my life and I know I will never get any better than that. I wanted everything and nothing all at once. You came to me with talks of weddings and a future, and I _wanted_ to be a part of it, I wanted to engage in something that made you happy, but I was scared. I was scared right up until I had to meet you at the end of the aisle.

                “I hadn’t had anything I had ever wanted to hold onto. I had an average childhood with below average parents, and I fought to climb the ladder in the courts of law because doing justice for people was my own way of making myself feel better about how empty I had become. It was new for me, to feel like that. To feel like I _wanted_ to settle down, and I did. But I didn’t know how to. I didn’t know what to expect from anything, and most importantly I thought you deserved better than a man who couldn’t commit to himself, let alone you. You did, and you still do. Yuuri, you deserve so much in life and I don’t know if there was anything in this world I could have done to have given it to you.”

                “I didn’t want the world, Viktor, I wanted you.”

                He draws a breath in, hands splayed across his white pants in his lap, and he draws himself inward for a moment of self-reflection. There was no _wanted_ , only want. There was an inferno inside the cage of Yuuri’s chest, and in the middle of the blaze sat his heart. It longed for Viktor, craved the smooth waves of his voice pressing against its edges and the touch of his hands splayed across his back pulling Yuuri into him. It was the knowledge that he craved his Russian lover, an ingrained part of his being was coded to thrive in a world where Viktor lived. There was a long moment of silence as he recollected himself, forced the thought of _need_ out of his head because he was so much more than desire. He was more than a man who needed Viktor Nikiforov.

                “I know, I do, and I’m-”

                “Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry. You don’t get to say _sorry_ when you left me. You don’t get to apologize when I had to take the brunt of this. You don’t know how I felt. You never did, you never _asked_. Viktor, you never even gave me a chance to fight for us. Fight for you. I would always fight for you, and I still would as much as I hate to admit that. I hate _knowing_ that even after thirteen months I still love you so much. And I hate waking up in the morning knowing that I would stand by your side and fight if you asked me to because I could never, _ever_ turn you away. Not like you did me.

                “So don’t pretend that you know what it’s like. Stop acting like you know how I felt, because you didn’t Viktor. I didn’t know you were scared, and you didn’t know that I was okay with waiting. We didn’t know. We failed at the most basic part of a relationship, and we let each other down because there were so many insecurities that we had. We let this fall apart because we didn’t talk. I didn’t go to you, and you didn’t come to me.”

                When Phichit reaches out to hand him a napkin he realizes he had started crying at some point. It’s relieving to let his frustrations out, liberating to cry and not feel guilt that was usually addled along with it. It was better, a minute improvement, but a notable one regardless. He shakes his head gently, offers the three of them a soft smile as he presses the heel of his palm into both eyes to wipe away the pooling tears.

                It was.

                Freeing.

                _I’ll be fine._

“I’m personally sorry that we both dropped the ball. I wanted to marry you so bad, I know, but you couldn’t pay me enough money to force me to marry you if that’s not what you wanted. I’d never do that to you. And I get the hesitance, I _do_ , but you’re the first person I’ve wanted to hold on to as well, so I know what it’s like. I know what it’s like to be wary of that commitment because you’ve never had it before. It was new for both of us and… I think, in the end, that showed.”

                A deep breath was drawn in through pursed lips, and as he raises his head he lets his lips curl into a soft smile.

                “I don’t hate you, Viktor. I never will. I couldn’t ever bring myself to hate you, especially not after spending four years of my life with you. I wish, so much, that you had been ready for me. I get it, I do. It doesn’t make it hurt less, it doesn’t make this easier _but_ I get it. I’ve had that feeling myself, and I know what it’s like. It’s… isolating, really, to feel like you’re not good enough for someone you love. And it’s even worse when you don’t want to let them down, so you try and force yourself to fit into this perfect mold they’ve made for you, but it’s awkward and uncomfortable. You’re not the right match, and that’s scarier than telling them you aren’t ready to get married yet.”

                Viktor’s covered his face with his hands, silver tresses falling over his pale fingers so they could rest against his wrist. Yuuri won’t press him, won’t push him to talk or respond, because that wasn’t why they were here. They were here to be productive, they were here to _move on_. They’d leave their old coffee shop, questions answered and boiling rage set to simmer, and they’d never see each other again. That was the goal, here, right? To get his answers and get over it. To find love somewhere else and hope it’s even remotely as electric as anything Viktor could offer him?

                An eerie, dark part of his soul howled at the threat of loneliness, but that was the best option. Being amicable was temporary, getting past _them_ to become Viktor and Yuuri took the effort out of everyone so they could all heal.

                Chris clears his throat, a balled fist to his lips out of courtesy, attempting to draw the table’s attention towards him. He’s been quiet, assessing the situation from his position at Viktor’s left, and he seems to want to train his eyes to his older friend, but he reaches a hand out forwards anyway and brings Yuuri into the moment with just a touch.

                “I appreciate you two being forthright with each other, but really, you could have said no when he proposed or walked out _before_ your wedding day. I’m not sure I can personally excuse that.”

                “I wasn’t… I never planned to leave. I didn’t _want_ to, but when I put that tux on and tucked the rose into my breast pocket, and I looked at myself for the first time that day, I hesitated. I looked so put together, so ready, and I knew inside I wasn’t. I just wasn’t ready to sit there and say ‘ _I do’_ in any hope that maybe I’d be good enough for Yuuri. I figured if I left before we got married I’d save him the headache of an inevitable divorce.”

                It was a reality Yuuri had turned over in his head, the prospect of divorce had they actually managed to wed that day. He’d told himself time and time again before that it was that ravenous anxiety of his talking, berating him for being comfortable in something that was outside of his own skin. Viktor was home on two long legs underneath a roof of platinum blonde, and any time he opened his arms Yuuri settled right in because that was the place that made him the happiest. _Viktor_ made him happy.

                “It would have been costly, you know that. Viktor clearly kept that in mind back then too, otherwise I think we may have had a shot. Burdening me financially was never your goal, and a divorce isn’t cheap either.”

                “I can’t really admit I was being economical about it, but I knew that, emotionally, dragging you into a marriage and forcing you through a divorce would have just… been a mental slaughterhouse, and I’d never want to do that to you. I didn’t do anything that was much better, I know that. I still hurt you, and I know you said you allowed that but I still won’t let you think that I wasn’t to blame for it. I _was_. I don’t want to take responsibility, but I am, because you deserve that. Whatever peace of mind I can offer you.”

                His hands drop from his face, and for the first time in the past ten minutes Yuuri gets a full, clear shot of Viktor’s features. His eyes were red, swollen from tears and the pressure the heels of his palms made, and it was something so surreal to see that he scooted back in his own seat just to take it in. He did that.

                _I made him cry._

_I know what it’s like._

_To make the man you love cry._

“I want to start over. Not even… Not even romantically, I just want you in my life. Someway, somehow. My partner at the office, good friend, enemy. I’ll take whatever you give me, I swear, but I can’t do this without you. Don’t tell me you feel differently.”

                And he didn’t, that much they both knew. It was in his eyes, the way the chocolate of his irises melted with affection at the implication of _more_ and _again_. He could do this, starting over. He could accept a future where they supported each other, because _that_ was where they succeeded. That was where their strengths lie, and Yuuri refuses to back down from the smile creeping across his lips while he reaches across the table to take one of Viktor’s hands in his own.

                “I don’t, and you know that. I need time, and please give that to me, but when I’m ready I’ll come to you, okay? We can start again, because you _are_ important to me. You’re one of my best friends, and I won’t lose that. Not now.”

                He couldn’t recall the last time warmth radiated from the other man, and he never remembered a time in recent memory Viktor felt this _determined._ It was a nice change of pace, to have those eyes of his that Yuuri fell for first fall to his whitened knuckles. Life was a journey for them both, a consequential ride neither of them were getting off of, but as far as passengers go, they were more than happy to hold on.

                When they had each other, even the most uncertain future was possible.

                “Okay. I can give you time. I can do that for you, if that’s what you want.”

                “It’s not about what I want anymore, but need. I need this. We all do.”

                And it was. There was a set process for healing Yuuri always followed, carving a safe path for his heart to heal through careful words and cautious questions. Chris had taken up the role of the bad guy when Viktor left, being the one to hand Yuuri the napkin himself, and it was something that obviously weighed on his mind whenever they had time alone together. Chris avoided those instances, insisted on some form of company, but Yuuri wasn’t sure if it was the guilt eating at him or just a general sense of discomfort being alone with his best friend’s ex. He hopes it was the former.

                Phichit, as always, took the reins of tying up their small gathering, tugging at Yuuri’s elbow when he went to stand and nudging Chris with his foot. Yuuri pointedly ignored the way Viktor’s eyes followed him, fell to the jacket in his arms that he had yet to put back on. It was obvious in the way he stood up on his own how badly he wanted to take it from Yuuri, to slip it on for him like he used to and press a kiss goodbye to his temple on their way out of the store. It was tradition. It was a mechanical movement that was second nature to the both of them, but instead of reaching out for the taller man, Yuuri folds into himself and tugs the jacket on alone.

                The half-smile he gives the table is more longing than thankful, and none of them make to comment as he ushers himself out of the front door after a small flurry of apologies. He can hear the harsh bite of Phichit’s voice as he dismisses himself to follow along, but it doesn’t feel _right_. None of this feels _right,_ and that hollow feeling in his chest only grows, and the longing that attached itself to the ends of the nerves in his body lights up again. It’s hard to move on, to accept fate and move past their previous history.

                It’s even harder to tell himself that he’s giving Viktor up.

                So he waits by the car, fingers curled tight around the handle on the door, and it’s an automatic movement on his part to slide inside as soon as he hears the vehicle unlock. He ignores Viktor’s figure in the window of the coffee shop, hand outstretched for the doorknob but too distracted by _him_ to get there. He hates how badly he wants to have Viktor follow, to bring him back home to where they both belonged. Yuuri so deeply craved the other’s touch and comfort, and he drew his knees to his chest in the passenger’s seat and kept his eyes away from Phichit as he pulled out of the parking lot.

                He keeps it together until he gets home, falling apart in the foyer of his apartment not even two steps inside. It feels like he took a part of him out and left it behind, and the way he’s trembling feels like a withdraw, Viktor being that drug he couldn’t quit until it quit him. He doesn’t know how long he sobs, and he doesn’t remember when he undressed and curled back up in the divot in the bed that was so uniquely Viktor in shape. He doesn’t care to turn his phone on.

                He disconnects for a week.

* * *

 

**Text From: Viktor N. 08-17 2:21PM**

                Thank you for meeting with me. I’m glad we were able to talk.

**Text From: Viktor N. 08-19 8:32AM**

Chris says he hasn’t heard from you since Wednesday. Are you all right?

**Text From: Viktor N. 08-24 2:13AM**

I know you said you needed time, and I respect that. I just worry, it’s been a while. Text me back, please.

**Text From: Viktor N. 09-01 6:09PM**

Yuuri? Please text me back. I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened. Did I say something that upset you? Are you mad at me? 

**Text From: Viktor N. 09-01 6:14PM**

What am I saying, of course you’re mad at me. Look, I’ll give you some space, I promise, just let me know you’re okay.

**Sent 09-05 12:04AM:**

I’m fine.

* * *

 

                He’s elbow deep in a bag of trash when Phichit lets himself into the apartment, face flushed and tear-streaked and he doesn’t have the willpower to play it off anymore. The other man stops for a brief moment, assesses the situation, then turns to lock the door before walking into the kitchen. It looked _bad_ , Yuuri knew that. He looked crazed, desperate with his arm halfway in his trashcan, and he was. His chest heaved, hiccupping as he forced himself not to cry more, and Phichit takes a moment to roll his sleeves up before he starts rummaging through the garbage with him.

                Yuuri can’t help but blink at him.

                “Phichit, wha-”

                “You’re in the trash for a reason, dude, so I’m going to help you out. What are you looking for?”

                _I can’t tell him_ , his mind supplies, and he shrinks back enough that his arm slides out of the rubbish a bit. His friend pauses his ministrations and looks him over, a concerned level of affection ghosting over his features, and Yuuri could thank whatever maker there was that gave him Phichit because he surely didn’t deserve a man like him in his life. Not when the other was bound to find Yuuri in the trash more often than not anymore.

                “Yuuri, I mean it, I want to help. What’d you lose in here?”

                And Yuuri knows he can’t lie, Phichit would see right through him. He had a knack for knowing the way Yuuri’s facial features pinched together when he tried to sell a lie, and it wasn’t hard for the Japanese man to wager that his friend that found him one fateful day seven years ago would catch him now. Not with how vulnerable he felt, not with how tired he was of hiding constantly. He wanted to let go, take down the walls he put back up and let someone in to share in his misery. Yuuri sought companionship in the form of tired friends and disgruntled coworkers, but he figured it was better than coming home alone to a flattened pillow and a bed that smelled like himself, and _only_ himself.

                “My ring.”

                Phichit straightens up, pulls his hand out of the trash, and looks Yuuri over for a moment. He’s thinking, the older man can tell. It’s in the way his brows furrowed and that he tugs his lower lip in between his teeth. He knows Phichit _wants_ to reach out to him, but the undeniable truth of garbage and questionable liquids covering his hands keep him from doing so. Instead he takes the trashcan, turns it to face him, and dives back in with both hands.

                “What are you doing?”

                “ _I_ am going to find your ring and you, mister, are going to march into that bathroom of yours and soak in the tub until I do.”

                The no-nonsense tone has Yuuri stepping back instinctively, and he’s not sure he heard Phichit right until the other lifts his head up and nods it towards the bathroom with a gentle _“Go”._ Yuuri should leave the ring in the trash where it belonged, that’s what everyone had told him. Get rid of the ring, get rid of the ties. Cut the ties, cut the guilt, cut the grief. He’d get better without it, liberate himself from the misery that followed him around like his own desperate shadow, but he couldn’t. It was a lifeline he never knew he needed, rooted him to this solitary place in his own world and reminded him just why he kept fighting.

                _I may not have Viktor, but I’ll always have this. A piece of us._

                Instead of arguing he gives a curt nod, rinsing his hands off at the kitchen sink so he could train his gaze on his friend. It was a surreal experience, watching his best friend rummage through his garbage for a ring he shouldn’t still be wearing. It was something that ruminated with him, crawled up inside that ugly place that he kept squared away and lit up the darkness that rested there. He hadn’t gone out of his way to talk to his friends or interact with anyone after he met with Viktor, but even after he acted so selfishly his friends came to him in the end. They’d always be there.

                If he takes his time in the bath to reflect and cry, Phichit doesn’t bother to comment once he finally does come back out.

* * *

 

**Sent 9-12 4:57AM:**

Who was that person with you in the picture from JJ’s bachelor party? The one you had your arm around?

**Text From: Viktor N. 09-12 5:06AM:**

What are you talking about?

* * *

 

                “Are you sure you’re fine with this?”

                He’s not.

                “Because I can just go home and we’ll pretend it never happened. I can leave if that’s what you want me to do. I’m not going to force anything.”

                Yuuri knew he wouldn’t.

                That was why he asked Viktor over at one AM, fueled by a small glass of wine and two sleepless nights in a row. It’s why he steps aside despite Viktor’s questions and asks him into the apartment anyway. No matter how distant they became or how far out of love they fell, a selfish part of Yuuri knew that Viktor would never force him to do anything. It kept his mind at ease, helped him find the calm amid the raging storm inside his mind.

                “It’s fine, I just… I wanted to talk, I guess. More? I don’t know. Just you and me, though.”

                It was easier to get things off his chest when it was _just_ Viktor and him. It was easier without others staring him down or that nagging feeling in the back of his mind that maybe he shouldn’t be doing this after all. He wasn’t making progress in getting over anything, and he wasn’t talking to Viktor unless it was on the off chance the other man needed to know that he was fine. He forced a distance between them and hoped it’d fare him well, but in the end with tired eyes and a broken spirit he came up empty handed.

                Viktor remembers to kick his shoes off in the foyer, toeing them some to line them up straight against the wall, then he shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the coatrack. It was second nature for him, to make himself at home here in the place he lived with Yuuri for three years. It stirred something greedy inside Yuuri’s gut, seeing the man he loved back inside these walls again regardless of the circumstances. This was perfect, it was the best plan.

                Hopefully.

                He closes the door, locks it for good measure, then takes his seat beside Viktor on the couch in a living room so bare it hardly looked lived in. Viktor noticed, it was evident in the way he held himself as he surveyed the room in silence. Not much had changed in the past fourteen months, but any trace of _them_ was gone, and there was a massive metaphorical hole in Yuuri’s apartment where Viktor once had been. He was the flame in Yuuri’s lantern, and when he left, so did the light.

                “Talking I can do. That’s easy, da? What’s on your mind, luchik?”

                Immediately Yuuri sees color flood to Viktor’s face, and he’s quick to wave a hand up in the air dismissively at his own slip. Yuuri caught it, heard it, felt it down to his core, and it was shameful of him to even consider how good it felt to be called something so affectionate again. The hole in his chest grew smaller, swelling with adoration again and he’s not sure if it was the booze or the sleep deprivation talking, but he scoots closer on a whim and beats Viktor to a comment.

                “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Habit, right?”

                If Viktor knew how to perfect anything in his life, it was his look of impassive interest. It was a cold stare, unmoving and calculating as it scanned over the area around him, and Yuuri hadn’t ever been the one on the receiving end of it. _How impersonal_.

                “I wanted to talk to you about what I texted you about last week.”

                “Regarding the man at the bachelor party? The message you didn’t respond to?”

                It felt like a sharp jab, unintentional on Viktor’s part, but Yuuri still shied away from the other man’s side. His previous confidence had dispelled in a cloud of smoke and regret, leaving him wanting for a stronger resolve and better ideas. He _hadn’t_ responded to Viktor, yes. After sending the initial text he had spiraled into an anxiety attack and opted to keep his phone off. It was easier to deal with himself and his triggers when they weren’t glaring at him directly. It was easier to get answers when they were face to face and alone. _That_ is what he had told himself.

                “Yes, that one.”

                “I don’t remember his name. Jeremy? Jacob? Something with a J, nice guy though.”

                _Nice guy._ Maybe Viktor had a type, the quiet unassuming ones that were kind and pleasant company. Maybe it was easier to replace Yuuri when the other man was just as caring as he was. It made him sick to think about, knowing Viktor’s intentions of getting cozy with someone else who _wasn’t_ him, but close enough to count. It counted, it mattered, and it stung.

                He rubbed at his eyes, pressing back into the other side of the couch, as far away from Viktor as he could be without being too cold. Acceptance was a long road, he knew that going into this, but talking about it twisted the knife in his chest a little tighter and took his willpower and crushed it into nothing. He felt empty, and that scared him more than anything else could.

                Viktor shifts on the couch, turning to face Yuuri but refusing to reach out for him. He wants to, the younger man sees it when he hesitates as he leans forward then rocks backwards again. He’s concerned in that way his blue eyes flash over Yuuri, observing and searching, and he had never felt so naked and bare before. He hated how well Viktor read him, how intimately aware his ex was of how Yuuri just simply _was_. He hated it because that’s what he wanted so desperately in that moment; to clamber over to the other and tug himself into his lap. He wanted to bury his face in the flesh of Viktor’s neck, curl his fingers in silken tresses at the nape.

                He wanted Viktor’s _comfort_ so bad it made him weep, and he cursed under his breath for letting himself be so vulnerable.

                “Yuuri, did you think that I was with him?”

                No response, not outside of muffled sobs into his knees and a tightened grip against his pajama pants. He needed a minute to collect himself, readjust his strategy for the inevitable _“Yes I’m with him, I’m getting over you. It’s what you wanted”_ that was sure to come.

                “Yuuri I haven’t been with or dated anyone since I left you, I want you to know that right now. Not him or any other person. It’s always been you.”

                “But it _hasn’t_ Viktor,” he snaps, head pressing further in between his legs as he burrows away from the source of his problems, “It hasn’t always been me. It never _was_ me. You can’t – You can’t sit there and tell me it has.” Viktor’s unsure of what to do, it’s clear by how he stops himself every so often from moving forward, but Yuuri _wants._ He wants, and he’s so bitter that his heart betrays him like this. So he lifts his head up and rubs away the tears, blinking past his anger and frustration to lock eyes with an incoming tidal wave.

                “It never could have been me if you left. I never would have been me if you never planned to stay. I was… I was novel for you, convenient. Something new and different and you liked that, but not enough to stay. That’s all I wanted from you Viktor. _Dammit_ , I just wanted you to talk to me! I wanted you to open up like I did, meet me in the middle for once. I never wanted to push you into anything, but pushing you away was even worse. Don’t spoon feed me that bullshit. Don’t try and tell me that you cared, because if you did you would still _be here_. You’d be here with me, and we’d be fine and it would have worked out. We didn’t even have to be married, you were always enough for me. Why couldn’t I have been enough for you?”

                They’re quiet for a long time. Yuuri takes the silence as an opportunity to get out his worked up tears, and Viktor uses it to watch over him quietly, hands folded between his knees because it’s the most he can do with them without touching Yuuri. The quiet taunts them both, laughs at their combined ignorance and Yuuri’s anger, and he thinks that maybe this was a cruel twist of fate to have the idea of bringing Viktor over so late at night. It was incorrigible of him to lash out like this when _he_ invited Viktor over in the first place. It was unfair to act so callously towards his silver-haired lover, but he did.

                He did because he needed to, and he did because after everything, all the tears and fits of rage and depression, all the moments where he thought of backing out of their deal all together, he needed this. They needed this. It was the first step to getting better. Neither of them would argue that.

                “I know sorry isn’t enough, but I am. It wasn’t your fault that I left, it was mine. There was nothing that you did that pushed me away, Yuuri. There was nothing that wasn’t inherently my fault, because you’re right, I _didn’t_ talk to you. I ran. I ran back to Russia and I pretended that I could do that whole ‘being alone’ thing, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that, I can’t do _this_ , Yuuri. I can’t pretend like I didn’t make a mistake because, _fuck_ , I did, and I regret that every day of my life.

                “I regret doing things that made you think you weren’t enough. I regret not talking to you about my own insecurities. I _regret_ thinking I was never good enough for you, because I never had the right to dictate what was best when it had nothing to do with me. Only _you_ knew what you needed and you chose me. You chose me and I let you down, and I can’t fix that but I want, so badly, to make it up to you. I want to give you whatever you want from me. _Please_.”

                Viktor doesn’t plead, Yuuri knows that. He takes, wants for nothing, is ripe with good fortune and excellent luck, and it was hard not to be envious of that. Now, though, it was shocking. It shook him to see Viktor like this, shaking with desperation and tears pooling in his eyes. He needed Yuuri, needed _anything_ he could get, and it showed. It carved a way into Viktor’s chest, rested right above his heart and held on tight and made him needy, greedy. It was a new side of the man he loved that Yuuri hadn’t witnessed before, and it made him feel thankful for the first time in months. He was _seeing_ Viktor. No walls, no lies, no hiding. This was real.

                So he gives in to the pleas, crawls across the couch and into Viktor’s lap and settles down because that was always home to him. This is what _they_ needed. His arms tuck around Viktor’s middle, face pressing against his chest while he forces himself to steady his breathing, and he feels the way the taller man tenses as Yuuri moves around. Fourteen months of nothing, the most contact the two of them shared happening on the dancefloor a month ago at a wedding neither wanted to really be at. This was intimate, personal. It was so uniquely them.

                Viktor relented after a moment, wrapped his arms around Yuuri and just held them there, tight and warm like always had been. He was all firm muscles and taught lines of stress in his shoulders. Yuuri could see the way his own turmoil ate at him, the way Viktor’s waist had slimmed more over the past months and the obvious bags under his eyes now that he was up close. Viktor looked exhausted, wrecked, and it was asinine of him to think that this whole thing was only hurting him.

                “Viktor,” he breathes, like a prayer into a quiet night against the soft fabric against the taller man’s shirt. He gets a hum in return, the vibrations rattling in the other’s broad chest underneath Yuuri’s ear. _Familiar._ “Please, please don’t let me go.”

                A moment skips, heavy and languid above them, and Viktor tightens his hold just a little more.

                “I won’t. I won’t Yuuri, I promise. I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this took so long to upload. I deal with a lot of chronic pain, and the week following my uploading of Chapter One I was in quite a deal of pain. I really do apologize! I wanted to have this up last Sunday, but the neighbors had their internet installed and subsequently managed to get our line cut in the process of doing so, so I was without Wi-Fi for five days. 
> 
> As you may have noticed, this fic got longer! I'm scared to admit that it may just keep growing, but this isn't progressing at the rate I had, and I'm not interested in rushing them getting back together either!
> 
> I'm not sure there's much to note here. Asoda is a real coffee shop in Chicago, very cute! Every location I use in this fic is real, so you can always look at pictures to get a better sense of imagery!
> 
> Luchik-Sunbeam/Ray of light
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/megalohdon) and [Tumblr](https://megalohdon.tumblr.com/). Thank you!
> 
> Kudos, comments, shares, and subs help me know you want to see more! <3
> 
> EDIT:
> 
> I want it to be know Viktor is not to be seen as the bad guy here. Yuuri doesn't see him that way and really he's not. He's human and he made a big mistake, but he's owning up to it and growing. The show is big on portraying them as flawed characters and that's what I'm aiming for!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!!! This will be a short(ish) angst fic that I was inspired to write like, two months ago? I started writing it at the beginning of May, but was so busy I didn't touch it for another full month.  
> I KNOW this is angst heavy. I planned it that way, but heed the tags! I promise it'll be fine, just trust me.
> 
> Now, I have two chapters planned for this, but for what I WANT to do, I could probably get three to four out of it just so I don't rush it, so if you see the chapter count increase, that's why!
> 
> A few things worth noting:  
> -They're NOT skaters in this fic. I figured it would have been REALLY hard to have Viktor literally run from his own wedding if he had been a skater and it not be hard for Yuuri to deal with things on his own and also not ruin both their careers.  
> -Viktor is a Lawyer, studied out of Russia before he moved to America with a work Visa and wound up at the referenced Chicago firm. Yuuri is a criminal profiler who actually moved to America for school and stayed there after he obtained a work visa.  
> -As vaguely referenced, they met at a bar one night, PROBABLY after Yuuri's finals.  
> -I aged J.J up because I REALLY wanted to see him tie the knot with Isabella and it just made things easier.  
> -I'm still debating on adding Yuri into this, and if I DID he'd also be aged up, probably early twenties working as an intern to Viktor.  
> -I may be able to cram every YOI character into this, I may not be able to. I'm sorry in advance if I can't!  
> -Yuuri's boss is Lilia ;)  
> -YUURI DOES NOT HATE VIKTOR FOR THE BREAKUP. At no point during this recovery process has he EVER felt poorly towards Viktor. He still loves him dearly.  
> -Viktor DOES have a reason for running. Good excuse or not is your decision, but that doesn't really make things better does it?  
> -I know this has a soulmates tag! This is NOT a soulmates AU but more so an AU wherein Viktor and Yuuri, regardless of their circumstances, will ALWAYS find each other. Not even a breakup can split them for good, they were made for each other.  
> -YUURI HAS HAD NO PAST RELATIONSHIPS WITH ANYONE ELSE IN THE SHOW, just Viktor. Chris, Minako, and Phichit are mentioned in the relationships tags purely for the fact that they're his main supporters.  
> -The bar and wedding venue are both real places. Everything referenced in this fic is real, but I suggest you look at those two in particular because I fell in love.  
> -Month 3 Yuuri breaks down because of a song - It's Johnny Cash's "You Are My Sunshine"
> 
> Also I know the timeline isn't explicitly stated, so here it is:  
> -July- The breakup  
> -Month 1- August - The cleanse  
> -Month 3- October - You are my sunshine  
> -Month 4- November - Charity  
> -Month 5- December - Birthday outing  
> -Month 7- February - Work  
> -Month 8- March - Call to home  
> -Month 10- May - Anxiety attack  
> -Month 11- June - JJBELLA invite  
> -Month 12- 1 yr post breakup, suit fitting  
> -Month 13- Wedding, reunited
> 
> This fic is UNBETAD, so if there are any mistakes or spelling errors they are totally on me and I apologize.
> 
>  
> 
> If you liked this please leave me a kudos and/or a comment! Also, sharing with your friends helps get the word out for it!! 
> 
> You can find me on both [Twitter](https://twitter.com/megalohdon) and [Tumblr](http://megalohdon.tumblr.com).
> 
> EDIT:
> 
> I have uploaded a small drabble companion fic that takes place right after Viktor leaves! It was song inspired, so it's not too long, but wanted you all to know.
> 
> I am also considering a Viktor POV of everything after I finish this, so if you'd like that please let me know! Can be here or on Twitter or Tumblr.
> 
> PLEASE REMEMBER: When reading this, be objective. Yuuri is a known unreliable narrator, so bear that in mind with ANYTHING he says. That's a good reason enough for me to give you Viktor's POV. I did make a big comment on the other fic regarding the situation if you all would like more peace of mind!


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